Tim loved rocks. Not in a "Look, a pretty pebble" way, but in a "This mineral composition is fascinating, and I need to put it in my pocket immediately" way. While others were fascinated by the color and the shape (the intellectually challenged ones are fascinated with size), Tim looked for the grain, the striations, or the possible mineral compositions that would explain the luster. His classmates thought it was weird, sure, but they mostly just accepted it—not like Tim was looking for their acceptance in the first place. Sometimes, they'd bring him a strange rock they found on their way to the school. Eight times out of ten, it was just a broken piece of asphalt. He knows because he counted.
Tim's story all started on a Saturday.
Breakfast at the Lawson household was the usual controlled chaos. Mom was at the stove, flipping blueberry waffles rapidly approaching pancake territory. Half of them have burnt blueberries just as Tim and his dad wanted. Dad was halfway through his third cup of coffee, reading an article on his tablet with the same intense focus he applied to everything he'd forget in an hour. One more coffee, and he'll be off bowling with Uncle Hector. And then there's Jake, Tim's younger brother. He was at the table, systematically tearing his waffle apart before complaining about why his blueberries were burnt.
"Tim, you're gonna be late for rock club," Mom said, adding another waffle-pancake to the growing stack. Jake was about to pour a dollop of maple on the stack before Mom lightly tapped him with the hot spatula, causing him to return to his seat.
"Geology club," Tim corrected because words mattered. "And I have plenty of time."
Dad glanced up. "You could always try a sport, you know? Or, I don't know, anything that doesn't involve coming home with half the backyard in your pockets."
Tim ignored that. Jake, never one to pass up an opportunity to be annoying, grinned."Maybe he'll find a magic rock that gives him superpowers."
Tim rolled his eyes. If only. He's seen and read thousands of rocks outside children's fairy tales, but none have magic. The philosopher's stone doesn't count because that's just pseudoscientific nonsense.
Tim finished breakfast, grabbed his backpack (half full of homework, half full of rocks stored safely in stolen Tupperware from the cupboard—priorities), and headed out. The shortcut out back and through the woods was his usual route. It was a reliable place of interesting finds, and hopefully, he'll see that bird who built its nest out of stones. He tried taking pictures of that bird, but it remained elusive to his phone camera. It's brown with white and black markings, but it shimmers into a myriad of colors when you view it from the right angle. Searching the internet pointed to it being a Killdeer, but it was far too large for that.
Tim excitedly trekked the beaten path in search of the strange bird's stone nest. Instead of a circular array of pebbles and broken seashells, he found something different.
A rock.
But not just any rock. It was smooth, dark—impossibly dark, like someone had carved a piece of the night sky and left it in the dirt. It doesn't have any reflection or gloss. It didn't look like any mineral he'd seen before, and he'd seen a lot of minerals. He tried to chip a part of it, but it chipped his stainless knife, instead. This was an interesting rock, and he'd love to show it to the club. So, naturally, he picked it up and was about to store it in his mom's Tupperware when everything went nuts.
The instant his fingers closed around the stone, a strange warmth spread up his arm. It seared him bloody as if he stuck his arm in a raging bonfire. His vision blurred. The world tilted, and the sky had turned as dark as the rock. And suddenly—
He wasn't in his body anymore. He was somewhere else, somewhere high above the trees. And down below, he saw his body standing rigid with its hand enclosed on a rock. He looked down and realized he was covered in fur. His hands, now tiny claws, held on an acorn the size of his furry chest. And fuck! He has a fucking tail. He didn't have to look in a mirror to realize he had become a squirrel. A very panicked squirrel.
"Forage! Forage! Forage!" Tim's nut-sized head screamed at him. "Pick nuts! Nuts! Food! Winter. Coming!! Must pick nuts." His entire body seized, and he looked at his body below. "Danger! Massive thing! Massive! Danger!" These were not his thoughts, but the animalistic instincts screaming at him to survive.
He tried to move, and the squirrel's body skittered forward in a way that was both thrilling and absolutely horrifying. He tried to scream, but all that came out was a rapid series of chittering noises. His real body simply stood there, holding the rock while its gaze stared deeply ahead.
After several desperate moments of full-on rodent meltdown, something in his brain clicked. It was beyond instinct, beyond will. Luck? It wasn't that. It's like breathing after nearly drowning, a stretch that cracks your bones just right. He did something right. He will himself back into his body. Just like that, he was human again. He wobbled and fell on the forest floor, feeling the dried leaves break into crispy little pieces under his butt.
He looked above and into the squirrel's eyes. It may not speak, but he had an inkling of what it was thinking. "HUMAN! Notice you! Hide! Survive!" It scampered off with the acorn tightly wrapped around its hand.
Tim looked back at the rock. Whatever this thing was, it pushed his mind to take control and become that squirrel. He was pretty sure he could do it to anyone or anything, but speaking from experience, he wouldn't ever try being an animal again. It was a shitty experience having your little brain scream at you to survive even if there was no immediate danger. His head still stirred with pain just from remembering his time as a squirrel.
Discounting his time as a squirrel, Tim could say this rock was the coolest thing he ever had.